


Atlas Smiles / The Glass Tiger / Seven Day War

by morituritesalutant



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Detectives, Gore (Mild), M/M, Murder, Organized Crime, Swearing, Urban Fantasy, alternative universe, fairytales - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morituritesalutant/pseuds/morituritesalutant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is an excellent but neglectful detective in the underbelly of a cursed city, but when du Vallon shows up he has reason to believe something interesting might finally be happening.<br/>Unfortunately, the man doesn't seem to exist. Good thing he's a detective then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor mention of drug use/cigarettes.  
> Also a warning for the main character being set on fire in a flashback.

The body is lying in the corner, the whites of his eyes visible in the shadows of the alleyway.

Aramis hates the smell of rotting corpses, especially this early in the night, but Athos had called in one of his favour’s and here he is, the fool called Aramis, soaked wet to the bone. 

He hopes Athos is getting laid tonight, or at least will get groped in his “downstairs areas,” as Constance had so adamantly put it, because otherwise it was not worth it. Next time he’s not giving in this easy, but Athos had winked, and he never winks so Aramis figured he should take the grave-yard shift for once. 

Nothing ever happens on Wednesday evenings. Everybody's too fucking tired from work to do some after-hours murdering, but alas, here he is. Breathing in the smell of a robbery gone wrong.

Even cemeteries are more fun around this time a night. In fact, he can recall quite a lot of great times at the old mausoleum, especially when Athos used to join him. Memories he’s not allowed to bring up.

Aramis doesn’t necessarily hate this city, he’s kind of apathetic towards it. He feels mildly annoyed about the broken down sewer system, but even to that he's grown accustomed. He can’t even remember the smell of melting asfalt.

It’s always raining. For as long as he's been here he hasn't seen one single sunny day. It doesn't really matter anyway,  Aramis wouldn't see shit even if it did happen.

  
And so the people in this region have grown accustomed to it. They stay inside and turn their faces away, towards the ground. They’ve shrunk so much, the highest of them reach 140 cm. (As though the contrast between him and the people around him wasn't big enough already.)  
Their customs have changed until they can’t remember what they had been like before. Everybody eats the same, has the same hobbies, goes to the same schools with the same curricula. The rain dictates everything.

Grey is the color that determines their visions and even the brighter ones have been subdued. Aramis is starting forget what red looks like. He never sees it anywhere anymore.

Only sometimes he can see small fires in the distance. When he first noticed them he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, like fishermen caught in swamps. The flames trying to seduce him into drowning himself. He realised soon enough they were small fires teenagers had tried to start that disappeared as quickly they had been made. Their parents had warned them it was impossible, but they wanted to try anyway, that’s the way teenagers are.

Rain and smoke reminds Aramis of the time his classmates tried to set him on fire to see if he was a saint. He hadn’t done a thing to prevent it, he couldn’t even watch with the sun up high, eyes filled with smoke as his feet were burnt. After their teacher had put the fire out, the children had asked, “do you forgive us?” and Aramis had answered, “never, I curse you for I am no saint, you’ve awakened the devil.”  
  
Aramis cannot remember where the words had come from. It might have been a bit of a dramatic response, but so was setting a ten-year old on fire and ever since burnt out fire and wet cities loosen something inside him.  
  
Making way for the night to settle in his heart.

Aramis is standing on the pavement on the crossing of el camino de la cruz and l'avenue du bonheur, trying to control the urge to light a cigarette. He’s waiting for Constance, she usually arrives closely before the clean-up and brings that fancy brand that doesn’t extinguish in the rain and neither burns out too quickly, but stays the same for hours. The one with the bitter aftertaste that makes him hallucinate.   
  
At least the trip back with the subway would be more interesting than it’s probably gonna be now. Unless he will get arrested again for public urination.

What he would give to have a ride in Athos’ white Mercedes-Benz right now.  Aramis pulls the hood further over his eyes.  
It seems to only encourage the rain.

Shaking hands, shaking mind.

  
His thoughts flicker like the broken pink neon-lights of the bar across the road.  Some letters have fallen off, and its name now spells 'FUCK U.' Maybe it's supposed to be intentional, the universe trying to tell him something and he gives the sign the finger.

  
“What the hell?”

  
“Not meant for you,” Aramis explains quickly.  
  
The man before him is not much taller than him, but his military-style buzz-cut, the impressive moustache and the broadness of his shoulders make him appear a giant. Aramis takes a step back.  
  
Another one that’s not from here.  
  
Aramis has tried to grow one of those, but so far it seems like a small rodent is living on his upper lip. A rodent he’s quite proud of.  
  
The other man blinks and Aramis notices his eye-lids are painted with yellow feline eyes making sure he's always awake even when he’s asleep.

He carries the world on his shoulders, that’s clear. He has the same hanging shoulders Athos has. A curse far worse than being a detective.   
  
Imagine it, actually caring.  
  
He should have had the earth painted in his neck instead, but what does Aramis know, he’s not really familiar with the whole ritualistic painters-cult. He laughs about his own joke, the other man looks at him funny. After all the furthest he’s come to ritualism is when he offended his mother when dropped a wedding plate and cursed everyone and everything from there to the sea and she warned him she would go to the witch upstairs and get his tongue restrained from cursing if he ever said those things again..

“You one of them oracles?” Aramis asks. He can’t resist the urge and he’s already coming up with excuses to explain the black eye to Athos the next morning, but the man before him doesn’t hit him, but studies him sternly.

Aramis takes a step forward this time.

“Executive-deputy du Vallon of the 402nd department,” the other says and he passes Aramis with a nod as he walks towards the dead man.  
“Heard a body had been found, realised I should check it out.”

Aramis has never heard a higher ranking officer explain himself, but nevertheless the ‘I don’t have much faith in the detectives of the garrison area’, goes unsaid, but is crystal clear.  
_Fucking bureaucrats_ , Aramis thinks.

The police department falls under the crows in this part of the city. Aramis often wishes it was different, but he can't really change the way things are and the facts are simple, you cannot not chose a side, pick one, wolfs or crows, and you might be able to live in peace if you stay in your lane. Aramis isn’t exactly very good at that either.  
  
Du Vallon pushes the body to their side and studies the face of the corpse. A minute later he stands up abruptly, almost hitting Aramis on the way up who has bowed over the deputy the same way du Vallon had bowed over the dead man.

  
“So, detective, your interpretation?” du Vallon asks.

“Robbery went wrong, sir.” Aramis says with certainty.

Du Vallon looks surprised.   
__  
The audacity.  
  
“What did they steal?”  
  
“Most of his organs, sir.”  
  
Du Vallon turns the same pink as the neon light, his eye-lid eyes staring at Aramis, it irks him. Imagine having sex while those keep looking at you, missionary would be out of the question.  
  
“Was he still alive, or did they already kill him?”  
  
“Organs are more worth when they’re still beating, but since they dumped him here and they sown him up pretty badly I would say they’re most likely amateurs and that he was dead before, should be easy to track down.”  
  
The rain is quieting down.  
  
“ _Sir_.”  
  
The executive-deputy dares to look impressed, the bastard, Aramis might be a bad friend and over-impulsive, but he’s good at his job.  
  
Still, du Vallon’s hot.  
  
“Fancy a drink?”  Aramis nods towards the bar.  
  
Du Vallon studies him with his four eyes, “maybe next time,” he concludes.  
  
“Is that a promise?”  
  
“It’s a possibility.”  
  
The haughtiness is just a little too present in his voice to turn Aramis on.  
  
“Maybe you should paint stars on the souls of your feet next time, you bloody sky-walker.”  
  
It’s not exactly the best insult, but if du Vallon's an oracle he sticks to the earth, sniffing that foul air they like so much, then he won’t like the comparison. Aramis doesn’t care if he ends up with that black-eye after all, either for insulting an oracle or an officer above him,  they take a liking to hierarchy in this city.

Yet against all of Aramis’ expectations, Atlas smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> If there remain any mistakes, please feel free to point them out to me.  
> The other two chapters have been written already, so they should be up soon enough!
> 
> I realised only after writing the story that the first title is quite close to 'Atlas shrugged.' Let me hereby express my absolute hate for Ayn Rand and emphasise it's a complete coincidence. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for ableism and alcohol consumption.  
> This chapter is from Porthos' POV, so a bit different.  
> Apologies for any mistakes I might have missed.

Jazz is playing in the background as Porthos enters. He is relieved the speakeasy never disappoints. It’s Coltrane, which is a good thing, he’s not sure if he could have handled Davis this night.

His shoes stick to the floor, the sound more annoying than the feeling, as he walks towards the bar. The bartender has his drink ready, another godsend that man.

He promised Marie to be back around 10, so he has to finish early this night. D’Artagnan ridicules him for still living with his mother, but if d’Artagnan had a mother that cooked like Porthos’, he would still live with her too.  
Actually, Porthos is pretty sure d’Artagnan has tried to move in at least once every week since they've met.  
  
Porthos often arrives home and catches him talking to Marie in the kitchen, sitting on the stool in the corner while gulping his mom’s risotto.  
  
Maybe he’s lonely.  
  
Marie-Cesette attracks lonely souls like strawberry lemonade flies.

  
It’s been four weeks since Porthos saw Aramis and he’s tired of waiting, he expected him to show up much quicker.  
Porthos had already cheated by visiting him earlier that he was supposed to. He’s not sure what would happen if he would bend the rules even further.  
  
He wonders if he made a good impression. After all, he had many years to prepare, watching the man he had doomed.  
He had heard often (and had seen) that the man was among the best detectives working (although reluctantly) for the crows, so what was taking so long?

  
“You’re a hard man to find, du Vallon.”  
  
  
Porthos doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, for he has heard that voice so many times in the future. He tries to control his grin.  
  
“Speak of the devil.”  
  
Porthos looks at him sideways, the same way he loves sideways, stupidly without being upfront about it.  
Unlike himself, Aramis is dressed as anonymously as possible. Porthos prefers to dress a little more _outgoing,_ so to speak.  
Life is short, better live it looking good.  
  
Aramis pulls a strange face at his comment, a sort of twisted bitterness. Porthos decides not to ask.  
  
“How did you find me then?”  
  
Aramis accepts Porthos’ alternative greeting and settles next to him, slowly and confidently. Giving Porthos time to study him, no— to appreciate him.  
There’s no question about it, everything Aramis does is intentional.  
  
“Well, first I started with the yellow pages, of course.”  
  
Aramis tries to attract the attention of the bartender, but without much success.  
  
“It was then that I discovered to my surprise that there is no du Vallon in this city. Which made me wonder about some of the other details you provided me with.”  
  
Porthos hums in agreement.  
  
“Turns out, there is no 402nd department and what was truly the cherry on top was the fact that there is no position of executive-deputy.”  
  
“Nor of deputy executive, I checked,” he adds, mumbling.

“Yeah, but how did you actually do it?”  
  
Porthos doesn’t like digressions anymore ever since he had to study Herodotus in high school.  
  
Aramis smiles crookedly. “Constance is dating d’Artagnan.”  
  
“And so d’Artagnan snitched.”  
  
“Don’t be too hard on him, he can’t say no to her.”

Aramis has yet to ensure himself a drink and he’s getting visibly annoyed by the bartender who avoids him.  
  
_Must not be used to getting ignored,_ Porthos thinks to himself and he stores it away in his brain. He feels way too happy for it to even be remotely appropriate that there remain things he can learn about this man.

“This place is a dump,” Aramis concludes after giving up on the bartender.  
  
“That’s a tight rope you’re walking there between freedom of speech and offense.”  
  
“But you gotta admit I’m right.”  
  
Porthos had hoped he would have learned to resist that smile, but he really can’t and so he feels himself nodding in agreement yet again.

Aramis walks to the jukebox. He fixes his hair in the reflection with precision. Perhaps he does share some of Porthos’ vanity.  
He takes his time looking over the different songs while Coltrane plays on and Porthos closes his real eyes for a second.  
  
  
Aramis chooses 1977.  
  
  
Porthos loves songs that are named with numbers, they have something profound and systematic he can hold onto when his life turns to chaos once more. When dead lovers visit us in bars and you wonder if you should have been a bus driver after all. Or maybe a waiter in a restaurant on the better side of the town, but instead he has become a traitor that's trying to do right by himself.

Porthos reaches over the bar and grabs the first bottle he can find. A glass is next.  
He pours it for Aramis who has returned, he receives another smirk in exchange.

“But once I knew you _did_ actually exist, you know, no ‘figment of your own imagination’- deal, I asked around, turns out, nothing but smoke and mirrors—“  
  
The wind blows the door wide open, it interrupts Aramis with a bang.  
  
“The wolfs are howling again,” he says instead of finishing his sentence.  
  
“It’s only the rain and the storms, detective. We’re in crow territory,” Porthos tries to assure him. His own doubt makes him fail.  
  
“Yeah, but how would you know, the rain makes everything so dark, anything could be out there,” Aramis asks, his voice shares the twisted bitterness of his face.  
  
“I can see in the dark,” Porthos says with a wink, knowing fully well two different eyes remain watching Aramis.  
  
“Like me,” Aramis says with the same boldness.  
  
  
His challenge is present in his voice and yet the both of them see their own surprise reflected in the other’s expression.  
  
  
“I thought you had moon eyes, like the murder victim,” Porthos asks carefully.  
  
“No, mine are sun blinded, not moon ones. A common mistake. But you see, no blue,” Aramis answers, moving closer towards Porthos.  
  
  
The rain subdues everything after all. How could he be so stupid?  
  
  
“They transferred me here when the cuts began, said I should be able to work in place where there is no sun to take my sight,” Aramis continues angrily and he says more, but Porthos ears are ringing with relief.  
  
To some of us nights off from work are our pantheon, and to some the strawberries one might harvest in the late summer and to Porthos it’s this intense deliverance.  
  
The edges of his vision move closer and further apart. He’s stumbling, or is he sitting. He could hit the floor any time now, but he grabs the wooden bar tightly. It cracks under his strength, but he doesn’t notice. All he can see is white instead of blue.  
  
He can hear Aramis talk, but its from very far away. He tries to breathe, but there’s no air, he chokes and the only thing that comes out is,   
“I think they’re a blessing.”  
  
Aramis looks strangely at him, he frowns with one eyebrow.  
  
“You one of those fuckers that says we should be happy with the way we’re born, that disabilities are apart of us, blah blah blah.”  
  
Porthos nods no, that’s not what he meant. He knows those people all too well, understands what it’s like to accept your own body and hate it at the same time, but his mind is somewhere else.  
  
He closes his eyes, but realises that Aramis must still feel like he’s being looked at and he puts his hands over his eyelids.  
  
  
He didn’t betray Aramis, he gave the crows the wrong man.  
  
The visions hadn’t been clear, what looked blue had been white and Aramis own eyes have saved him from being shot in the dark. Concentrate on the glistering of the eyes in the night, like a hunter might shoot a rabbit. A lesson well learned when Porthos visited his father’s estate when he was 18. He never returned.  
  
Porthos' mistake saved him from having all his organs removed while alive as a warning for all prophets that dared to walk away from the family, like Porthos had done.  
  
He didn’t betray Aramis.

 _I’m sorry._  
But he doesn’t say it. If you repeat a word too often, it loses its meaning.  
A game he used to play as a child, say it an thousand time and it becomes strange and unfamiliar.  
Elbow, elbow, elbow. (He liked that one the most.)  
Later the words became more complicated,  
desire desire desire,  
negligence negligence negligence.  
  
He thought perhaps if he could forget its meaning, he could forget what it felt like too.  
  
  
Aramis has dropped it and says instead. “Christ, who the hell fucked you up?”  
  
_You_ , Porthos thinks, but he isn’t exactly ready yet to explain time relativity and says, “want to leave? Nothing but dead soldiers here,” as he puts the bottle back where he stole it from.

“No, not before you give me some answers,” Aramis responds.  
  
“As much fun talking to you was, to be frank, I’m not here for private ordeals, but instead for the investigation of the death of Alejandro Torres. Did you know that was his name?"  
  
Porthos stares silently. Aramis smile has changed. The way he speaks is different. Business it says.  
“You don’t actually think I had anything—“ Porthos starts.  
“And while we’re on the topic, I would like to know what you meant by, 'just like the murder victim.’”

Porthos has to admit Aramis isn’t a bad detective after all. He understands now why Aramis was late before. 

When he saw Aramis on the night of the 11th murder, Porthos was scared.  
Not solely because he was meeting him for the first time, finally meeting him, but because Aramis looked like one those martyred saints that are pierced by arrows, or burnt alive and yet carry a stoic face like they’re not losing anything of great importance anyway.  
  
This time he looks different. This time Porthos isn’t afraid.  
  
As interference goes, he’s pretty sure he’s about to change history. He supposes that perhaps he doesn't have an awfully lot to lose and all he thinks about is a 21-year-old Aramis telling Athos on a cemetery, “fuck it, why not?” as he kisses the other man and gets his heart broken.  
Some things are worth at least a try.  
  
“There have been ten more murders like Alejandro Torres over the last five years,” Porthos starts. He takes the bottle back and pours them both another drink.  
  
“All had moon-eyes, all had been shot through their left eye.”  
  
They sip it slowly simultaneously.  
  
“So, they’re targeting someone, but they don’t know themselves who it’s supposed to be, or…”  
Aramis doesn’t finish his conclusion but Porthos can see him thinking behind his white eyes.  
“Why steal their organs though? That makes no sense.”  
  
“When you figure it out, tell me,” Porthos is forced to lie.  
  
“Perhaps I will, still, you’re not off the hook, du Vallon, but at least something interesting is finally happening.”  
  
_Shit_ , Aramis is a storm-chaser.  
Another thing Porthos didn’t know and yet another thing that is stored away immediately. Porthos cynically reflects on his previous relief, don’t those always die first?  
  
“It might be dangerous,” Porthos adds. He just set the man he loves on the path of his killers while he’s still alive.  
'Fuck it, why not' might not have been the best advice he had ever taken to heart.  
  
  
“Of course, how else do I know I'm truly alive?” Aramis laughs loudly this time and downs his drink.   
  
 

_Fue algo necesario que marcaba ya mi fallo  
_ The song is near the end.

  
“For a speakeasy this bar has a pretty stupid name,” Aramis comments, teasing Porthos again with his low opinion of the establishment.  
  
  
“Don’t talk about things you don’t know, didn’t you mother teach you that?” Porthos replies with similar teasing tone,“not my fault you don’t know the story behind the name.”  
  
  
As empty bodies are meant to warn him, let a fairytale warn Aramis, in hope Porthos can truly change history.

“A long time ago,” Porthos  laughs and Aramis  laughs back, “a cocky wizard made an animal out of glass to defend him from the unsavoury demands of his customers. However, since he was so arrogant, he gave the animal two eyes of rubies to show off his wealth.

The creature’s red eyes saw far and well. He often came along with the wizard, but since he was made of glass and thus had no internal organs, he could not speak. Yet the more he saw.

He learned to recognise friends from foe, he saw backdoor bargains being struck, affairs begun and ended, corruption spread like an ink-spot, but he kept it all to himself, not wishing to arise any suspicion on what his mind was gathering.  
  
Many years passed, until one day it all changed. It’s different in each version, but in mine the poor creature saw something he could no longer turn a blind eye towards.  
Let’s say it was a murder to be planned.”  
  
  
Aramis switches their glasses and downs Porthos’ drink as well.  
  
  
“The murder of a man that meant a great deal to the tiger, for he was the only one that greeted him, petted him softly even though the glass had to be cold, and so the tiger did everything he could. He tried to warn the wizard, the victim and his family, but without avail.  
  
No one thought a mute pet like him had anything of worth to say.  
  
There was but one solution. And he readily accepted it: he escaped and tried to prevent the murder.  
  
A tale of courage and selflessness might have followed, but alas, the tiger was not made of blood and bone, and when he jumped before the bullet that was shot, he shattered in a thousand pieces of red glass.  
And so even in his death, he separated the victim from his murderer by a sea of glass. Some claim the victim escaped that way, yet some say his body was found dead the next morning, killed by his saviour, pierced by the glass tiger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> I tried to take my inspiration (uhuh) from North America this time.
> 
> \--Story of the glass tiger was of course inspired by the fairytale of '[The Glass Dog](http://americanliterature.com/author/l-frank-baum/short-story/the-glass-dog)' by L. Frank Baum, it's not stealing when you source it?  
>  \--Aramis' not-moon eyes were inspired by the blue eyes horses occasionally have (which is a phenomenon known as moon eyes) and/or the blue merle colour one finds among dogs. (Like my very own, see [here](https://40.media.tumblr.com/fb78bb5f99361a9d614554791257ead1/tumblr_ntwpgq2Nix1sbcy3yo1_500.png) an example)  
>  \--Dead soldiers is American slang from the 20s for empty bear bottles.  
>  \--The bar is called 'the glass tiger,' which is a bit strange since synonyms for speakeasy used to be blind pigs or blind tigers.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last instalment.  
> warning for minor character death, see notes below the chapter for those who wish to know on beforehand.  
> short mention of vomiting.

****Aramis is standing in the rain, _again_. Another dead body, _again_.  
  
He has found himself in the iron district, but smoke is clouded by mist and only the smell and sound of machines tell him his location.  
He wonders sometimes whether this city has a river, and if it has, does it stretch far and far away? Would he be able to follow it, walking along its shores, until he would end up high in the mountains, high above the smog and finally see the whole city?  
  
He will never know, his free movement is restricted by the crow-clause. He’s not allowed outside the district, something he has often complained about, for how can he do his job if he cannot question and follow up on everything he believes is relevant.  
  
Athos had mocked him. “When will you _get_ this city?”  
  
He hadn’t answered, because his response would have been a heartbroken one, _if I give in, I will never be able to leave._  
  
  
The victim is a young wolf, not an anonymous black market organ donor this time.  
He can't see anything properly, the neon lights flickr off and on again, so he decides to wait for Constance.  
  
And yet he knows this boy is connected to Porthos. He worries about it more than he worries about finding a wolf among crows. He should care about the latter, but his mind is on the prophet. He thinks about calling Athos, asking for intel on the wolf side, but he hesitates. He isn’t sure why.  
His mind is more clouded than the sky around him.  
He wondered if this was the victim the glass tiger should have given their life for. _Bit late for that._  
  
He’s not a fool, Porthos had told him what would occur.  
Had told him the reason, a tiger with remarkable eyes would try to save an enemy.  
  
Ergo as Aramis was on crow side that enemy had to be a wolf.  
The strange eyed stranger would betray the crows out of the goodness of his heart and would dearly pay for it, with his life. Something Porthos was trying to prevent.  
  
He thinks Porthos is naive, it was obvious Aramis was meant to be the tiger in this story, but he doesn’t get involved in feuds, and so a boy is dead before him.  
  
Still, something nags in the back of his mind, surely it can’t be this simple?  
  
His mind concentrates on the other murder, as it has been doing for the last two months.  
  
Porthos had been right, ten other murders, very similar in execution. All in crow territory, all victims indebted to the crows.  
  
Why kill your own people?  
It’s all too fucked up for him to comprehend.  
Dead men don’t pay no debts.  
  
His head hurts from the hangover of the evening before and rain is finding its way through the  soles of his shoes.  
He can hear the rhythmic beating of the downtown metro under him. The smell of hot iron and piss surrounds him.  
_Think_ you stupid fuck, that’s what you’re paid for.  
  
Aramis decides to make a list. Constance does it all the time, makes lists of everything she needs to do and then doesn’t do anything with them, but here he is and Aramis has no other approach, he's run out of options. He has sunk truly low that he’s not just considering, but actually trying Constance's way of dealing with situations.  
  
1\. The killers weren’t sure who they were looking for, but only knew they had to kill every single person with moon eyes in this city.  
  
2\. The murderers had clearly not been amateurs, but also hadn’t cared enough to do the stitching right, which could only mean the following: the organs weren’t for the blackmarket but meant as a warning. In other words, two birds, one stone, or this case, two crows, one bullet.  
  
Conclusion?  
3….  
  
Oh fuck, he needs a drink. Or a cigarette. He feels disorientated.  
In his dreams the rain doesn’t change the colours of the city. The world still shines when he’s asleep. It's how he tests if he's asleep or not, so he looks up to the green neon-lights high above him. They’re faded into grey, he’s awake.  
  
Someone approaches from behind.  
  
“Since how long have you stopped working for the crows as a prophet, Porthos?”  
  
Du Vallon has arrived, at last. He’s wearing a yellow raincoat, it suits him better than the deputy uniform the first time they met. Aramis won’t tell him it kinda turned him on at the time.  
  
“So you found out my name."  
"Still a detective." Aramis responds, pointing to himself and then raising his eyebrows, waiting for the answer to his question.  
  
"Ten years ago I walked away.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you leave their fucking territory?”  
  
“I was waiting for you.”  
  
He supposes they’re going for honesty this time. Everything he has heard about this man showed him nothing but urban legend and hearsay, a man made out of mist in a city that has no sun. But standing here before him, Aramis can only think about how solid this man is. How permanent, not a light beam one cannot grasp, but a steady, warm body. One he wants to touch.  
_Control yourself,_ he tells himself.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
It’s Porthos' time to ask questions and he’s so very clearly not a detective, he asks the obvious ones first, rookie mistake.  
  
“Not hard to figure it out, you literally wear your profession on your face, I mean, come on. Although I admit, I thought you were an oracle first.”  
  
He turns around to Porthos at last, but Porthos' eyelids are empty, his gift erased, sold?  
  
Aramis steps closer, brushes his right hand softly over Porthos’ cheek, “but only prophets can intervene, and when you told me the story of the glass tiger, I knew. Not a very subtle warning.”  
  
Suddenly he understands number 2., the organs.  
_Shit_ , he’s slow today.  
Curious whether Porthos will confirm it, he voices his conclusion.  
  
“The art of haruspex, right? It is long believed by some that organs tell a persons’ future, so they were targeting you. A robbery to hide a murder becoming a warning for both of us.”  
  
Porthos moves towards the dead wolf, but Aramis steps before him, stopping him in his tracks. He supposes that is a yes.  
  
“The crows, they’re trying to kill me, aren’t they?” Aramis asks. “But you by accident gave them the wrong description.”  
He can recall it clearly now, Porthos’ relief in the speakeasy as he had realised his own mistake.  
How he had given the wrong description of the eyes of the man carrying their doom.  
  
Porthos nods, without his feline eyes watching, he looks much younger and sadder. And in love.  
Ten full years of worrying, but why worry about someone you have never met. Aramis understands.  
  
He wonders at what point Porthos fell in love with the man he had doomed to die. Watching Aramis’ life through the future, Porthos hadn’t been able to control himself.  
He can't blame Porthos, he is pretty amazing in his own humble opinion, but that's pretty messed up.  
  
“Me a martyr, you a prophet, some pair we make,” he whispers into Porthos’ ear and steps back, letting Porthos slide past him, towards the body.  
  
  
“I just don't understand why you did it. Why did you let all those others be murdered while living in fear everyday for the last 10 years that I would be the next victim?” Aramis pulls the collar of his jacket higher.  
  
“You could have saved all of them, you could have saved him!” He’s getting angry now, pointing to the wolf, he can be neglectful in his job, but Aramis believes in justice.  
  
“Would you have believed me if I came to you, without any evidence?" Before Aramis can answer, Porthos continues in the same angry voice as Aramis had turned towards him. "No,you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have believed me! You would have said I was crazy. You wouldn’t have asked the right questions.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure I would have at least given you some attention, because last time I checked when someone comes to you telling you you’re about to be murdered you tend to listen!”  
  
“But you wouldn’t have believed me.” Porthos seems to have trouble saying the words, pronouncing them separately and slowly.   
  
Porthos turns around, facing Aramis again and _shit_ , Aramis really is slow today. How didn’t he notice earlier? Porthos opens his mouth and shows him, then quickly closes it again.  
  
“That’s pretty fucked up, mate,” is all he can say.  
  
Porthos is bound, like Aramis’ mother used to threaten to do to him when he was swearing too much as a kid, and by the look of it they tried to cut out of his tongue  as well when they realised they couldn't stop him from speaking about what he saw in the future.   
  
Aramis doesn't know what else to say, his anger dying quickly. He desperately tries to remember what the rules were again. He studied it when he became a detective. Nobody could be bound entirely, because free will is too strong to prevent people from speaking their minds. And especially over a long time the effects would fade, so if Porthos had left the crows 10 years ago, he must have found a way to fight against it.  
  
Wait... fuck.  
Porthos had already told him, a _sk the right questions._  
Aramis remembers how Porthos hadn’t been able to tell him about the organs in the bar, when he had asked, most likely because it was related to himself. So questions about Porthos he had to avoid, but what should he ask instead?  
  
“Must have been frustrating, waiting, thinking I would die any minute.”  
  
Porthos hangs his head then turns his face away. He looks lost, Aramis thinks and realises too late he said something that hit too close to home.  
  
_Ooh,_ howhad Aramis been so stupid. It is then that Aramis finally sees it, how he understood it all wrong.  
  
“It’s not me who is the glass tiger, is it?”  
  
He slowly recalls the story while Porthos listens.A tiger that sees far and well but cannot speak. His fear of a murder that was being planned, the murder of a man that meant a great deal to him until he realised there was but one solution. And he readily accepted it: he escaped and tried to prevent the murder.  
  
Aramis supposes he should have figured out right then in that bar, Porthos had been even more obvious that he had thought. He supposed you have to be when you are prevented from telling the truth: Porthos’ feline eyes, the tiger that tries to save Aramis, and Aramis being the one they plan to kill. He tries to forget what happens to the tiger at the end of the story.

“In the future, do we have sex?” Aramis asks instead, _not missionary, not missionary_ he prays.   
“Yes” Porthos says, and smiles like it’s a memory. Fucking prophets and their conception of time.

“I’ve haven’t dreamed of dying yet,” Porthos adds, guessing his thoughts.   
Aramis hears the trains echo below their feet, moving in the endless belly of the dragon of the Downtown Metro. The neon-lights flickr and he isn’t sure the other man is still standing in front of him when the lights go out again.  
  
“You gonna tell me what I’m going to do that makes the crows want to kill me before it even happens?”   
  
Porthos looks past him, to the dead boy.  
  
“The young wolf?"  
  
Porthos smiles sadly and says “I didn't want him to die.”  
  
Aramis understands even less then before, “fucking hell mate.”  
  
Porthos smiles again. But it’s not smile, it’s a grimace.  
  
Porthos is being awfully mum today, Aramis thinks and he knows he’s close to the truth, otherwise Porthos would be mocking him by now. "Not so clever for a detective are you?" He can almost hear Porthos say it.

“Think, for fuck’s sake, _think_ , this is your job.”   
Porthos chuckles. Aramis hadn’t realised he had said it out loud. He flips the other man the bird.  
  
  
“What is so important that they kill their own over it?" He muses, "what am I going to do that they want me dead so desperately.”  
He looks at Porthos, he's still there, he can vaguely distinguish the yellow coat in the shadows.  
  
“It’s not a question, just a comment,” he adds, “feel free to say something on it yourself, if you feel the need, you know.”  
  
“Maybe you will bring justice.” It seems Porthos can answer when he speaks in stories or hypotheses.  
  
"Justice, you say? Not really my thing," Aramis reponds, his nerves forcing a unfunny joke out of his mouth.   
  
“I’m not crazy enough to go after one family, that would just unbalance the city, everyone knows, if you go after one, you will have to go after both….--”  
  
The wolf, the murdered boy before them, Aramis swears again.  
  
“He was killed by his own, this wolf, wasn’t he?”  
  
Porthos murmurs something affirmative.  
  
Aramis paces from one side of the alley to the other.  
“I kept wondering, why a wolf suddenly? Why break the pattern? But I'm getting it now," he muses out loud, trying to collect his thoughts, "the families are working together on it, which means they’re really desperate and I don't know what it is, but something must drive me nuts in the future to go after both of them.”  
  
“You and I both know you’re already a bit crazy, detective.” Porthos says, but he keeps staring at the victim.  
  
As hints go, it’s not very subtle. But nothing is subtle about a man carrying the world on his shoulders and a set of extra eyes on his eyelids, ones he has no longer. Aramis tries to ignore why that might be.  
  
Suddenly the whole city is silent. He can't hear the trains, can't hear the factories. He doesn't hear anything, only his own breathing.  
  
Aramis hasn’t properly looked at the body yet, but he begins to realise that might have been a mistake.  
  
Slowly he bends his knees, puts on his rubber gloves, which is damn hard when it’s raining this much, and softly turns the boy's face and opens his eyes.  
  
He stumbles back, loses his balance but Porthos is there, catching him.  
The wolf has sun blinded eyes, like him, exactly like him.  
  
His hands shake, withdrawal? No, fear.  
  
“Who is he?”  
  
But Aramis already knows the answer, even in the shadows he should have recognised that face from anywhere.  
  
“Your son,” Porthos says, his voice a broken whisper.  
  
Aramis runs to the corner of the alley and vomits.  
  
After half an hour, he stumbles back and looks at Porthos, Aramis hates him suddenly, why didn’t he save him, why couldn't he have told the crows it was Aramis they were looking for? He would have gladly given his life if it had saved his son. He knows it's not Porthos' fault, but blind rage builds up inside him.  
  
Porthos had mentioned justice and Aramis had joked about it in return, but it is no longer a joke, and it is not justice he wants, it is revenge. Cold blooded revenge, all of them locked up or dead. Punished for ruining this city, ruining his life, killing his son.  
  
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, by trying to prevent it, the families forced fate's hand.  
Porthos had predicted their certain demise and out of fear for what would happen, they had hunted the man who would bring them to justice and destroy them, setting the prophecy in motion themselves, by creating the motive for his revenge, killing the only person he cared about in his life.  
  
Aramis carefully picks up the small body and cradles it, then he starts to walk. His lover in the yellow coat follows.

This is how it will truly begin. Everything goes as Porthos predicted, as it was always meant to go and it doesn’t end until one of them is dead, and history will forget who won, history will forget who lost, it will forget everything but its name: the seven day war.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' son with Anne is the murder victim.  
> Hopefully I didn't make it too sad...  
> I know not everything was answered, such as the story how Aramis and Anne had a son together and got separated in the two parts of the city, Aramis leaving only for him to return many years later, but I will leave it up to your own imagination.  
> As for the choice of the animals, both crows and wolfs are present in many mythologies as animals that take care of the people, one suckles, one feeds, e.g. Romulus and Remus as well as more gruesome stories, like the Mongol version of 'The Khulan, the Crow and the Wolf.'


End file.
